


The Woman Wore Red

by LyraNgalia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deductions, F/M, Morning After, rare pair bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In Sherlock Holmes' recollection, in the distilled essence of information he kept in his mind palace, the Woman wore red.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woman Wore Red

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo for the prompt "red".

The Woman wore red.  
  
The fact that he had observed her long enough to know that Irene Adler preferred neutrals in her clothing, that she enjoyed the stark elegance and power of black and white mattered not one iota to Sherlock Holmes. Clothing, after all, was changeable, and in Irene Adler's case it was a ruthlessly controlled disguise and self-portrait, one that projected power and gave away nothing.  
  
In Sherlock Holmes' recollection, in the distilled essence of information he kept in his mind palace, the Woman wore red.  
  
She wore red like blood on her fingers, red that shone like diamond hard lacquer on her long, carefully shaped fingertips that curled like claws, that dug deep into his skin while clever fingers pried apart the facade of the Consulting Detective and ripped apart the human emotion he pretended not to have. Red tips on strong slim fingers that wielded a leather riding crop like a saber, that made leather bite into his skin and draw blood and pleasure from a man others thought was little more than a machine, a stone.  
  
She wore red like a scythe, hearts blood rich with oxygen on lips that lured him with puzzles and poison, with promise and temptation, that sliced him open and exposed his weakness. Red lips that lashed him with words like iron tipped whips, that bit into him like barbs that could not be dug out of his skin, that sunk straight to the bone, that marked him far deeper than any implement, even hers, could do physically.

It was immutable fact to him, that the Woman wore red like blood, a fact as seared into his memory as the play of light against pale, flawless skin that was an utter mystery to him, and as unforgettable as the sound of her stiletto heels, clicking like minute gunshots against polished wood, each step an auditory command to snap to attention. Ever a part of his memory of her despite the fact that he now had countless other memories of her, intimate knowledge of the feel of her skin, soft and supple beneath his hand but still an enigma. The sound of her gasp as his mouth traced the tender curve of her breast, the way the light caught in her hair as she pinned him beneath her, the feel of a single soft curl escaping the confines of her coiffure to brush against his cheek as she drew wordless cries from him.

The Woman wore red, and it tasted of wax and mystery, of blood and sexuality, of pain and the promise of pleasure, against his mouth.

He felt the fine silken sheets against his body, the linens a minor irritant against welted, tender skin as she moved, sitting up, the bed dipping beneath her weight as she untangled herself from the sheets to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Their liaisons, for all their unpredictability and intensity, followed certain patterns, certain rituals that allowed them both to slip on their armour again, her the cold calculated cruelty of the dominatrix and he the frigid, unfeeling machinery of the consulting detective. The dip of the mattress beneath the Woman signaled the beginning of one such ritual.  
  
Sherlock did not have to turn to look to know she padded towards the washroom, though he turned anyway to watch the play of light across her bare skin, to see the way her hair fell loose over her shoulders and obscured the thin red marks that bloomed bright against her back. Without turning to look at him, she knew he was watching, he could tell from the way she flicked her hair over her shoulder before disappearing into the washroom, and the water began to run.

He settled back on the bed, listening to the sound of water, of the subtle changes in the sound of splattering drops as the Woman stepped into the shower, as water drenched her hair, coursed along her skin. He could see her clearly in his mind as she lathered soap, worked shampoo into her hair, methodically sluiced the remnants of sexual intercourse from her body, leaving behind nothing but the physical marks he'd left on her skin. He could see it because this was one of their unspoken routines, one of the things that marked the end of their liaisons, that she would rise first and shower, put herself to rights while he lingered in the bed, listening, indulging.

It was, perhaps, the only reason he allowed himself to indulge in the seemingly pointless exercise of lingering. Because it did mark a definitive end to their liaison, because he would be Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, again shortly. So he could indulge now, linger in the afterglow of his high.

Eventually the sound of the shower stopped, and Sherlock sat up again, leaning against the headboard, the sheets carelessly clinging now to his hips as his eyes swept over the room seconds before her return, cataloging where his clothes had ended up and in what state (the button on his right sleeve was missing, ripped off either in their fervor or from a particularly forceful swipe of her riding crop; his left shoe had been kicked behind her vanity table) as well as the changes to her boudoir since his last visit (two new gowns in her closet; her fur muff had been cleaned, planning for a trip to colder climes then, a new piece of jewelry, given by an adoring client, that she finds particularly hideous). He had no doubt she knew what he did, that he read her comings and goings in these moments. He also had no doubt that she occasionally planted false clues to throw him off. He'd caught on to two, at least, and the fact that she refused to tell him how many there has been irritated him even as it sent another shot of arousal down his spine, his brain utterly ignoring the limits of his transport.

The changing light told him before he heard her steps that she'd stepped out of the washroom again, her hair blown mostly dry, though droplets of water still clung to her body. She did not look at him as she emerged from the washroom, though the barely-there tug at the corner of her mouth told Sherlock she was obviously aware of his presence. She always was. That was further reinforced by the fact that she shed her towel precisely as she passed the bed, leaving it in a discarded pile exactly where he would set his feet when he moved. She remained carefully, pointedly unaware of him as she pulled a sheer green robe from her wardrobe and slipped it on.  
  
This was a part of their routine too. Her seeming indifference to his lingering, his study of her toilet. There was, in his mind, a fine, fascinating difference between the Woman and Irene Adler. A difference that went beyond the lipstick and the clothing she wore, but that which was assisted by such things. The donning of the sheer dressing gown did not make her less the Woman, did not immediately make her Irene Adler, but there was some moment in her toilet that changed her, that armoured her, and it was fascinating to Sherlock that he had yet to pinpoint that exact moment.  
  
It was why he stayed, or so he told himself. There were things about the Woman that were still a mystery, and Sherlock Holmes was not one to leave a mystery unsolved.  
  
The green chiffon did little to hide the Woman's curves, did little to hide her body from his study. But then it had never been her curves that intrigued Sherlock Holmes; the swell of her breast hidden under a wisp of green lace and chiffon might have intrigued John Watson once upon a time (though now that he knew more of Irene Adler, Sherlock suspected John found her as appealing as a poisonous spider), but it was her mind, the razor sharp intellect behind her eyes, the brain that informed every whip-like biting word from her tongue, that intrigued Sherlock.  
  
And it was that mind that he continued to study through their dalliances even as she schooled him on the refinements of sensation, on the numerous ways his transport could be teased, distracted, made to ache and want until his mind and body joined in begging for release. The mind that somehow managed to anticipate his own defenses to her tricks, that made him beg every time even as he strove to return the favour.  
  
It was, after all, what made their dalliances such a thrill, such a challenge. So much more than ordinary sex.  
  
And what made his study and her toilet so much more interesting than a simple routine. That there was something in her, some brilliant part of her brain, that changed, that made her Irene Adler rather than the Woman during the motions.  
  
She sat now at her vanity, the folds of her robe dark emerald against the white leather, shifting and drawing the eye to the fabric and obscuring the motion of her limbs as she dabbed foundation onto her face. Her fingers were quick and sure, working the liquid into her skin and dusting pale powder (alabaster, the label had said) over all. A sweep of silver-grey eyeshadow went on her eyelids then, a light dusting that reminded Sherlock of the pale ash of cigarettes, of the slow lure of her voice like opium smoke and nicotine in his veins.  
  
It was an idiotic thought, fanciful and without use, and Sherlock banished it from his mind immediately. Only to realize that Irene Adler sat at the mirror, all poise and precise cruelty as she picked up the tube of aquamarine eyeliner she favoured and brushed a subtle sweep of it along her eyelashes.  
  
He blinked, watching her with renewed intensity, trying to catalog what had changed in the seconds it had taken him to have and to banish the thought. Powder on her cheeks, highlighting the flawlessness of her skin, but that had been there before the Woman became Irene Adler. Grey eyeshadow dusted both eyelids, and now a touch of aquamarine lined one eye as she began lining the other.  
  
It had not been simply the presence of the silver grey eyeshadow. The previous time he had observed her at her toilet, she had been the Woman until some moment after she'd put on lipstick, some undefined moment between lining her lips with blood and twisting up her hair into its elaborate coif. The time before, she had become Irene Adler even early, sometime between walking out of the washroom and sitting at her vanity.  
  
It irritated him to no end that he could not pinpoint the moment, that there seemed to be no clear identifiable moment when the Woman who had so easily wormed her way under his skin with her intellect and cruel vulnerability became Irene Adler, whose wit was still razor sharp but who wore her cruelty like armour and made the world's knees quake at the sight of her.  
  
It irritated him because if he could not find what change transformed her from the Woman to Irene Adler, then perhaps there was no such change between Sherlock Holmes, the man who ensnared and found himself ensnared by the Woman, and the consulting detective, who dismissed emotion and saw crime as puzzles to be solved. If he could not find that delineation between the Woman and Irene Adler, if no such fundamental difference existed, perhaps no such easy answer laid between Sherlock Holmes and the consulting detective.  
  
Perhaps the consulting detective, the unfeeling machine, was one and the same as Sherlock Holmes, whose sentiment for the Woman had followed him into death and lingered upon their mutual resurrection. Perhaps the Woman who cried out for him as she made him beg was one and the same as the one whose idle calculation spelled the downfall of politicians and countries.  
  
He scowled inwardly at the thought, to think that they could be so ordinary, and returned his attention to watching her, to observing Irene Adler as she twisted up her hair into an elaborate coif of serpentine curls, as she precisely lined her lips with lipstick the same colour as the blood she'd occasionally drawn from him.  
  
She scrutinized herself in the mirror, her lips pursed as she took in the effect. Her eyes shifted for a moment, from judging her reflection to taking in his study, and her lips quirked into a smug smile. Her voice was like opium smoke, teasing at his senses, luring him with the promise of another dalliance, another holiday, another escape from the tedious boredom of ordinary London that twisted hedonistic pleasure and intellectual stimulation together. "Until the next time, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
He found himself smiling, mirroring the curve of her blood red lips, as he straightened, swinging his legs over the bed and dragging the tangled sheet carelessly with him. He kicked the sheets from his feet, leaving them rumpled and pooled next to her discarded towel, and headed for the washroom, for his own ritual cleaning, scrubbing away the lingering sentiment, donning the consulting detective again.  
  
He was both Sherlock Holmes and the consulting detective. One day he would solve the puzzle that was her to his satisfaction, but it would take more data, more time observing her, more time in her presence.

The Woman wore red, whether she was the Woman or Irene Adler.

“Until the next time, Miss Adler.”


End file.
